


Little Green Apples

by sevenfists



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Originally Posted on LiveJournal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-01-08
Updated: 2007-01-08
Packaged: 2018-10-27 12:03:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10808640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sevenfists/pseuds/sevenfists
Summary: Sam kisses Dean for the second time on the morning after the first time he kisses Dean. The first time was in a bathroom in a bar, both of them jostling at the urinals, scuffing their feet along the stained, sticky floor, Sam leaning drunkenly and Dean turning his head at just the right moment for their mouths to slide together, unexpected.





	Little Green Apples

Sam kisses Dean for the second time on the morning after the first time he kisses Dean. The first time was in a bathroom in a bar, both of them jostling at the urinals, scuffing their feet along the stained, sticky floor, Sam leaning drunkenly and Dean turning his head at just the right moment for their mouths to slide together, unexpected.

It was shocking, like static electricity sparking blue in a darkened room.

The second time, Dean's leaning over the bathroom sink, peering at himself in the mirror while he picks at a scab over his eyebrow. It's healed up, and the skin beneath is shiny-pink, a little puckered. He's unshaven and greasy and his hangover's a pulsing beat between his eyebrows.

Sam flings the door open. "Dean," he says.

" _What_ ," Dean snaps, hitching at his boxers. He wants coffee and something really greasy—hash browns and sausage patties, or maybe some biscuits and gravy.

"I, uh," Sam says, chewing at his lip. He shifts forward, shifts back again; shakes his head and leans in, kissing Dean, his mouth dry and a little awkward.

Dean feels like his spine's being ratcheted out through the top of his head. He clutches at the edge of the sink, his index fingers catching in the hole that drains away extra water—he isn't sure what it's called. Sam's hand is cupping his head, his callused thumb brushing the skin beside Dean's ear, and Dean feels hot and shaky all over, his stomach curling anxiously.

"Huh," Sam says, pulling back, his sour breath a damp current across Dean's mouth.

"Uh, what the fuck, Sam," Dean says.

"Just testing a theory," Sam says. He gives Dean a huge, fake smile and backs out of the room, closing the door behind him.

"Yeah, well, your theory sucks!" Dean yells at the door. He scowls at his reflection. It scowls back at him, under-eye circles dark against pale skin. He needs some goddamn food. And a brother who isn't listening to the mystical aura of the planets or whatever.

Sam acts squirrelly all day, smiling out the window at the corn fields and the power lines, whistling something Dean doesn't recognize when they stop to stretch their legs.

"The fuck are you so happy about," Dean snaps, putting on his sunglasses. The sky's too bright, and there are ugly purple flowers blooming on the side of the interstate—it's like the whole planet's teamed up to remind Dean of exactly how many shots he did last night.

"It's a beautiful day," Sam says placidly.

"I hate spring," Dean says.

"Someone's wearing the grumpy pants today," Sam says. He won't quit grinning. It makes Dean's head hurt just to look at him.

" _Grumpy pants_? Are you _five_?" Dean says. "Get in the car. Jesus."

The third time is that night, after Dean's pulled on a hooded sweatshirt and a pair of Sam's flannel pajama pants and crawled into bed, feeling—okay, he's fucking grumpy, he can't hold his liquor like he could when he was twenty-two, and maybe it wouldn't kill him to eat a damn salad every once in a while. Whatever. He turns on the TV.

Sam comes back from the vending machine, his big fingers digging into the yellow bag of M&Ms. "You in bed already?" he asks, eyebrows raised.

"No, I'm having a tea party," Dean says.

Sam rolls his eyes and comes over to sit on the bed, hitching his legs up to rest alongside Dean's. "I take back what I said about the grumpy pants."

"You're too kind," Dean says.

"Dude, seriously, what crawled up your ass and died?" Sam asks. "Can't drink with the big dogs anymore, huh." He holds a green M&M between his thumb and forefinger, squinting at it like it's a gem, and offers it to Dean.

Dean opens his mouth and eats it out of Sam's fingers, pulling it in with his teeth. Sam's thumb brushes against his lower lip, a brief touch, catching at the chapped places on Dean's mouth.

"Stop it," Dean says.

"Stop what?" Sam asks, grabbing the remote out of Dean's hand. He changes the channel to some lame infomercial about diet pills.

"You _know_ what," Dean says, doing his best to get the remote back, but Sam snatches it away and holds it away from Dean, his freaky long arms keeping it out of reach.

"If you didn't want any M&Ms, you could've just said so," Sam says, and laughs when Dean snarls at him.

Dean goes on high alert after that. Any time Sam comes within two feet of him, he edges away. He doesn't want any more accidental groping or kissing or any of that bullshit. Sam's got arms like an octopus and Dean spends every waking moment on the lookout for one of those tentacles sneaking its way down the back of his jeans. Sam went through a wedgie phase when he was in high school, and the memories are still too painful to dwell on for long. Dean isn't sure what Sam's up to, but he knows it's probably going to be humiliating and possibly traumatic.

He holds Sam off for a couple of weeks, the two of them doing an awkward tango, Sam forward two steps, Dean back three and to the side one, edging around gas pumps, diner stools, and motel sinks. It's exhausting. Dean isn't even sure what he's afraid of, what he's so worried Sam will do—

The fourth time happens because Dean drinks too much—again—and Sam has to help him out to the car, both of them staggering a little, laughing at something that was really funny five minutes ago—and somehow Dean finds himself turning into Sam, edging him up against the side of the Impala, his hands hooking into Sam's belt, and they hover like that for a moment, mouths inches apart, before one of them closes the distance, and then they're kissing—for real this time, not a mistake, not Sam being a freak, just their lips learning how to fit together, slick and breathless.

Dean feels his eyes drop closed. Sam smells like Speed Stick and cheap laundry detergent, and his hands are warm where they spread across Dean's lower back. His pulse rushes, too hot, a thousand molten lines inside his body.

When they get back to the motel, he shuts himself in the bathroom and sits on the closed toilet seat, watching his hands shake. His hearing's funny, deadened somehow, and he can't—it's _Sam_ ; it's always, always Sam.

He won't talk to Sam the next day; he feels cracked open, like he's been gripped in a giant hand and squeezed. They drive in silence for miles, south along the highway toward Arkansas, the fields spreading green on either side of the road, well-watered.

Near noon, he pulls off at a gravel turn-around and stops the car, gets out. The air's humid and dusty. He walks a little ways down the short embankment before he drops to his belly and rolls to the grassy field at the bottom, a few feet of lawn before the farmland starts. He'll probably have grass stains on his jeans. He doesn't care. Insects are humming, a low buzz.

"Dude, what are you doing," Sam says, peering down at him.

"I'm lying on the fucking grass," Dean says. "Is that okay with you?"

"Whatever floats your boat," Sam says. He looks off down the road, scratching absently under his chin, his shirt tails catching the breeze and ballooning out.

"Sammy," Dean says.

Sam trots down the slope, stumbling a little as he hits a knoll. He flops onto the ground next to Dean, laughing, his arms spread wide, one across Dean's chest and the other stretching out along the grass. "Nice day," he says.

"Get off me," Dean says, shoving at Sam's arm.

Sam sits up, his mouth stretched into a frown. "Okay, _you_ kissed _me_ last night."

"So what," Dean says.

"So quit acting like I offended your maidenly honor! Christ, Dean."

"I don't understand what you _want_ ," Dean says, irritable.

Sam tugs at the grass, pulling a few blades out of the ground, and scatters them across his own shoes. "I could give you a demonstration," he says.

"Shut the fuck up," Dean says. "I'm serious, I can't—I'm not sure we—that we want the same thing, Sam, how do I know what you want if you won't—"

"Just you," Sam says. "That's all."

"Huh," Dean says. He closes his eyes. The sun's warm on his face, turning his eyelids orange. He feels Sam's fingers along the edge of his jaw, the lightest touch imaginable, and then against his earlobe, and his cheekbone; and Sam's kiss, when it comes, isn't unexpected. Dean already has his mouth open, ready for it.  



End file.
